Love III

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

So I did sit and eat.

    “Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back/ Guilty of dust and sin.” How often do we balk at our own infirmities and unworthiness and draw back from merciful Love in shame. So many saints are quick to assure the Christian faithful that the great and almighty Lord is crazed with passion for even the basest sinner. He runs to rescue the fallen, dejected sheep, the stubborn, headstrong lamb. “But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack/ Drew nearer to me.” He never abandons, and rather, always runs toward the wayward and gently approaches the timid, ever “sweetly”, ever attentive and responsive to the inner workings of the heart of the beloved. “Do you lack any thing?” Is there anything I can give to you, can supply for you, to be more at ease with me?

    Oh, but Love, I am not “worthy to be here”; either leave me for someone more worthy or fix me to be a better man. “Oh, but I indeed shall make you worthy,” replies Love with all tenderness and sweetness. I must turn my gaze away, for could I dare to look at pure brilliance with my soiled sight? But still He takes my hand and tells me that He Himself made mine eyes, so why should I not look at Him?

    

    Ah, but these eyes are sullied now, no longer so bright and innocent as once they were. “I have marred them.” I’ve accrued a terrible, heavy shame. “Know you not...who bore the blame?” Indeed, I bore the blame for these sins, bore them to purify you anew. “My dear, then I will serve [you]. You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat.” So now, can we do “sit and eat”, eat freely of Love Himself, drink freely of the wine flowing from His lips, which bestow the kisses of His most lovely mouth into our very beings.

.

“I am always waiting for [sinners], that I will intently to the beating of their heart… When will it beat for me?” (Faustina's Diary, 1728).

.

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.October 27, 2017.

~It's been a little while, but I've been writing a lot this fall—honing my craft, so to speak—and I want to share some of the beauty I've encountered lately.

Dr. Regis Martin shared this poem in his class on Spirituality this October at the Clearwater School. It's really moved me and I wrote this little reflection on it. I hope it reminds you how very loved you are.

Antigone: A Poem

Ismene and Antigone—two sisters

outside the gates of Thebes,

Ismene with vacillating determinations,

Antigone indomitable to the closing.

Recently returned from a journey lately ceased,

they hear their brothers both are lately deceased.

Strong Eteocles, defending his country

slain by his brother Polyneices, traitorous and greedy

in a tussle for the throne. 

The loss of two brothers once,

turned enemies at the end,

sisters too late to save them,

just in time to hear the decree,

as they heartbrokenly mourn
they hear: Polyneices never shall be borne

into the earth, left above ground. 

Their royal uncle Creon, jealous is he

Jealous of the throne, intent on bending

the population to his will, 

as he honors Eteocles as Hero

censures Polyneices as Renegade

—forbidding his burial—

vultures for the traitor will fit his bill.

Dismayed by this revelation, Antigone mourns,

the sister’s heart inside her bewailing the loss

she suffers by her brothers’ death, 

furthered by disrespect shown Polyneices.

Determined, she declares “I’ll do my best,

to honor both brothers, disobey,

and bury Polyneices.

Will you join me?”

Ismene refuses to accompany

Antigone on her wily

attempt to honor their brother,

“Why risk more woe?”

And so Antigone goes alone

to do what she may to pay respects to the dead.

Antigone lingers, sprinkling dust on Polyneices’ body

weeping, mourning the memory of her brother…

But a wandering countryman finds her handiwork,

rushing to the palace, to inform Creon,

 “Burial rites performed on Polyneices’—

but please it was not me!”

The incensed king orders the witness,

“Find that person or peril on your existence!”

Terrified, the man apprehends Antigone, caught her in the act,

and to the tyrant Creon, brings her back.

Enraged that a citizen, his own niece

disregards his will so totally

he orders her to be imprisoned,

buried alive and left to die.

Despair encompasses Ismene

fearful to live with her sister not

determined to share Antigone’s lot

But the condemned testifies to her innocence

and Creon cares only for the violator, not the sister,

—Ismene left in tears

—Antigone sealed without fears.

Remembering the crimes of her father,

destiny visiting her today for yesterday’s sin,

Antigone knows her fate, ready to

wed personified death, her expiration,

peaceful, glad, in the face of death.

Finding a rope, twists it to a knot, 

“O welcome Death! Now you have me, I am yours!”

these were her last words.

Tiresias, blind prophet, approaches,

warns Creon of his error,

“Your offsprings’s ruin,

your son for the murder of your niece,

punishment for the destruction of budding beauty.”

The gods against him, they be,

incensed by your cheek,

to make yourself into one like them.”

Creon irritated that his decree

be overturned by those holding 

greater power than he, 

he vacillates, unwilling.

“How dare you say

the gods, clear as day,

want the girl released?”

Townspeople cry, “Tiresias never lied to Thebes, 

and all his prophecies ring true,

your grief shall surely come

if you leave the girl to die, you’ll rue.”

Decided, Creon realizes

the petty risks he takes

to uphold himself, why try

if it only brings more misery?

Creon rushes to the tomb,

intent now to free Antigone to save his own.

But alas, too late:

already Antigone has strung and swung her rope,

acquiescent to death, she’s welcomed her grave, wide-armed—

Haëmon is distraught. He came

to rescue her, that they may live together,

free from his father’s limits,

but he found her dead already,

swinging on her rope.

Creon has arrived too late, 

to free her now useless,

as his flesh and blood Haëmon 

turns on him in rage

brandishing a sharp sword

but Creon springs away, does not witness

his son running on the sword in distress.

Sentry reaches royal palace first, 

announces ruin of Haëmon and Antigone,

and Eurydice, lady of the house,

struck by the sudden death 

of son and daughter both, 

whirling emotions, retreating to her chambers with a knife…

Mourning Creon enters his home,

“Oh, what have I done?”

The messenger enters—Haëmon’s suicide—

the prophecy fulfilled,

the weak-willed boy too tormented

to live without the love

his father has destroyed.

Creon anguished further,

turns for consolation,

reaching for Eurydice, a warm embrace,

only to receive more woe—

his wife—a son’s death—despair—and she has pierced herself,

slain herself like Haemon,

devastated by a mother’s grief…

All for a mistake of his proud whims,

no family or relief for him—

with wails and moans,

Creon is left alone.

.

.

.

.

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—I wrote this last month in place of an essay while I studied Sophocles. I particularly like it, so I wanted to share. I am currently working on a prose reworking of The Aeneid, about which I am also excited. I have really enjoyed choosing creative writing projects rather than the dry essays I typically am tasked (at least, I find them dry. I have not quite struck a balance in essays, though I am finding a groove.) Peace.

Shakespeare Using Gloucester and Lear

Prompt: Compare and contrast Gloucester and Lear, focusing on their choices, their adherence to kingly or noble ideals, their relationships with their children, their level of wisdom and humility (at the beginning and end of the story), and/or other parallels you might find interesting. Be sure to integrate quotes from the text to support your comparisons. 

     Through the differences and similarities between Lear and Gloucester, Shakespeare reaches his audience in a relatable way in King Lear. Though Shakespeare wrote King Lear based on several older stories, he added the sub-plot of Gloucester and his children. Because of the addition of Gloucester to the story, it is clear that Shakespeare meant for the correlations and contrasts between Lear and Gloucester to add to the thematic development in King Lear. For example, Gloucester’s physical blindness can be seen in Lear, when he is blind to the truth of his daughters’ love for him; these two instances of sightlessness makes the theme of blindness in King Lear more poignant. 

     Though Lear loses his sanity and Gloucester loses his sight, in some way, each also has the other’s problem. In the beginning for the book when Lear is starting to lose his sanity, he begins to lose sight of the truth, a figurative blindness. When he finally learns the truth of Goneril and Regan, Lear laments, “O, Fool, I shall go mad!” In contrast, after first becoming physically blinded, Gloucester slowly begins to lose hints of his sanity. His state of suffering—emotional and physical—and sightlessness was enough to send him a little over the edge. Causing one to think about one's own sightlessness and loss of reality, these contrasts and similarities between the two men’s encounters with the metaphors of sight and insanity add depth to the reading of King Lear.

     Gloucester and Lear both have opportunities to learn from their decisions and those of their children. When Gloucester discovers that Edmund has been lying to him, Gloucester is beside himself in grief and longs to see Edgar, the son that he has previously written off, saying, “O dear son Edgar…/Might I but live to see thee in my touch.” When Lear learns that his older daughters are deceiving him, Lear becomes angry and upset, but when he finds his youngest daughter Cordelia, his disposition lightens and he turns happier. In these circumstances of their children’s betrayals and reunions with their faithful children, the two fathers have very similar reactions. 

     Gloucester and Lear relate to their children in very different ways. Being wealthy, both Lear and Gloucester have money, property, and titles that their children could inherit. King Lear plans to gift his children with their inheritance; Gloucester’s Edmund devises a plot to use his father’s goodness and steal his brother’s inheritance. Gloucester and Lear approach their children’s love and loyalty for them differently as well. Though both listen to words, not actions, Lear gives each of his daughters a chance to speak for themselves. He goes to all of his daughters, asking whether each loves him. Imploring Cordelia to “mend her speech” when her expression of love is simple, he wants to believe she loves him more greatly than her sisters. Unlike Lear, however, Gloucester only listens to what Edmund has to say; when Edmund goes to his father first, Gloucester does not even attempt to ask Edgar for what he might have to say. Though Lear and Gloucester both take their children at their word, Gloucester is not concerned with talking to both of his sons before reaching a decision about them, as Lear does with his daughters. Lear is desperate for his daughters to love him; Gloucester is ready to believe, without much thought, that Edgar is devising a plot to kill him. 

     In Shakespeare’s play, Gloucester and Lear are similar in many ways. They have similar lessons to learn and they are both affected by their children’s actions. Though in different ways, the themes of insanity, blindness, and family love are all present in both Gloucester and Lear. Not surprisingly, their reactions to and experiences of similar situations have their differences; they are different people. Through the characters of Gloucester and Lear, Shakespeare portrays how two people will respond to similar situations in very different ways. Since people rarely have the exact same circumstances in their life and they rarely respond to them in the same way, it would be hard to relate to a story with characters with identical lives, and this is what makes Shakespeare’s plays universal and beloved by so many.

--This is, obviously, an essay on Shakespeare's play King Lear.  I got a 97 on this paper (though I've already made some of the slight changes my teacher suggested). I want to publish my papers on my blog, but I get so caught up in the actually writing-of-the-papers that I have been forgetting to do that, so, as I think of it when needing a break, I'll try to catch up. 

John Milton

Name: John Milton

     Birth: December 9, 1608 Place: London

     Death: November 8, 1674 Place: London

Best Known Works: Paradise Lost, Lycidas, Comus, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”, “On Shakespeare”.

Brief Biography

     As inspiration for his writing, Milton drew largely from his own experiences. After each of the deaths of his second wife, two friends, and his sister’s unborn baby, Milton penned poignant poems of grief. Involved with the politics of his day, Milton wrote many pamphlets by order of the Cromwellian government, for which he worked from 1649 until Oliver Cromwell’s death (Luminarium). He also wrote two treatises on divorce after his first wife left him for several years in the beginning of their marriage. Having had the opportunity to meet Galileo earlier in his life, Milton alluded to the genius from Italy many years later in the composition of Paradise Lost . Living during the Renaissance, Milton was exposed to the increased interest in the Renaissance of classical culture. Accordingly, Milton included references in much of his poetry to mythological figures and stories of both Greek and Roman origin. Milton was also influenced by the Protestant Reformation, and he wrote several religious pamphlets along with his political works. Milton’s legacy lives on as a result of the scope and breadth of his work due to its universal and timeless themes as he experienced them in his own life.

Jokinen, Anniina. "Life of John Milton." Luminarium. 21 June 2006. 30 October 2014. http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/milton/miltonbio.htm

Petri Liukkonen. Pegasos. n.p., 2008. Web. 31 October 2014. http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/jmilton.htm

Ruth Rushworth. “Milton’s language”. darkness visible. Christ’s College. n.p., n.d. 30 October, 2014 http://darknessvisible.christs.cam.ac.uk/language.html

-Using a format from the textbook, this is an author profile I wrote for my British Literature course. It's only the second time I've used citations, so I'm still working on that. 

Brainstorming. With a period.

Guess what? Cool Irish Writer (NOT Irish Girl) inspired me to write part of my Emily! I haven't written (like that) in ages, and it feels so good to have 2 hours simply set aside for writing something! And I also realized the hard part was thinking about stuff like logistics, or whatever you want to call it, of particulars in the story/background line. Well no longer! I wrote part of the middle, one of my favorite scenes in the whole thing, like the whole thing, like my absolute favorite scene and it's not good. At all. Not at all what I want. At all. Like it doesn't have enough... Stuff in the middle of key moments, but it's so good to just be able to write, and write what you want without pressure!  I don't do enough anymore, but I think I will, because it was pretty cool. 

Anyway, to post it, I'd have to write some of the middle. 

What I COULD do is make videos. See Emily started as a bedtime story, so it's been pretty hard to a) recall details and b) articulate stuff that was pretty ambiguous, and just kind of understood. But I could write myself a plot and make videos of myself telling the story, in the voice it's comfortable in, but odd to read, semi passive.  ( It's been a pretty hard trying to voice it in an easy to read way.) 

So anyway, I might try that. Or, on the other hand, I might not. 

OR I could make the videos, then get my little helpers and write it all down. That would be good. Actually, really good. So then I could post a raw, originally intended version, along with a cut, edited, readable version.

So, maybe expect some updates on that. If you see me on a regular basis please hold me accountable to this... and offer to help. Haha. I'm pretty shy in asking for feedback, but I sorely need it. 

Okay then, I think that's it. 

Toodles!

-Bookworm

Yes, I've been a slacker. A big one.

Happy 2014! It's crazy because it still feels like 2013 is new!! I guess not :)

I've been feeling rather sheepish to post anymore, but I've  read a lot of authors' advice, and decided I'm not up to the task of writing a whole book yet. It's one thing to come up with a story and another to sort through it, and I'm a very particular writer, and it's too hard to try to think of anything the way I want to to actually get it done. So the rest of that story is postponed, for now. 

So, if I ever get any writing assignments again, I'll post them, but right now I haven't been getting any. (Hint hint, mom.) Thank you for your patience. Although I don't know, maybe whoever out there hasn't been patient at all. In that case, well too bad. 

Bookworm Roni

This is where it gets weird: Chapter 2

     The door slammed shut behind her. Emily whirled around, yet could see nothing in the blackness, and feeling around awarded no cracks or handles or any clue that the door had been there in the first place. Emily became suddenly afraid. "You were foolish and acted quite rashly", she chastised herself, much in the same way as Alice from Wonderland. Emily became filled with regret as she stood in the dark.

     But not for long. For out of the black came a person. Humanoid, but very distinctly not so. It began speaking very rapidly.

"Bed bea geb, deb bea geb, deb bea geb cade beag?"

     "Excuse me sir, I don't know what you are saying," Emily rather timidly and quizzically replied, wondering if she had been right to call it a sir.

        The FedFaded, for that is what it was, made no reply, looking stunned out of speech.

Emily took this time to asses the situation: she was in her piano, 1-1/2 inches tall with a being that look like a dwarf (or was it a gnome?) spewing gibberish at length. Was it safe for her to speak to this creature?
Emily giggled at the thought. The creature hardly seemes dangerous, with an odd piece of wood looking quite like an instrument strapped to his back.

She began, "My name is Emily Baden. I was playing my piano when-"

"Your piano? YOUR piano?!" the creature exclaimed. "Don't you mean the Piano of FedFad?"

     "FedFad?" Emily repeated. Then she remembered: THOSE were the notes she had played. Her piano's manufacturer was FedFad too...

Emily was in her dreams again. She recalled the first time she had noticed that no one else's piano said FedFad. Everyone else's said Yamaha or Young Chang. Emily asked her parents about it one night.
"Well Emily, that piano has been in your mama's family a long time; nowadays people are buying Yamahas and the like. FedFad just isn't well known anymore," her father has said. Her mother had made no comment.

     But Emily hadn't believed that. She searched the Internet for "Fed Fad". It was a fruitless search. Emily had soon forgotten about the whole thing, yet still felt an odd tingling whenever she saw the piano, like she knew she had forgotten something.

     But now it was rapidly returning to her, and the question still loomed: What is FedFad? And now there was the question: How had she forgotten?

     "How do you know about FedFad?" was the only question Emily asked aloud, and warily at that.

     "How do I know about FedFad?" the man scoffed. "This IS FedFad!" The creature looked quite offended. He began muttering to himself and wringing his hands.

Emily wasn't even paying attention anymore. She exclaimed to herself, "So this is FedFad!"

     The creature stopped dead and nearly shouted, "Egad this is FedFad; what else would it be, ababd?!" slipping unconciously into the language of Gab.

     "Ababd?" Emily repeated.

     The creature stared at her. He had waited so long, waiting, watching, giving up everything life could offer, for this?

     "Girl human", the creature offhandedly replied, "which is what you are of course." Bede fell deep into thought.

     Was this it? Was this is abdgab they had been waiting for? Bede found it hard to believe; they had been waiting for so long, and look what happened to that other one. He needed to get the ababd to Madame Butterfly. "Dabe Fab," he ordered.

     Emily, quizzically, gave up on trying to ask what he was saying and decided she should follow him as he started away. At any rate, she was eager to get away form the spookiness of the doorway, or what used to be the doorway.

     Bede hurried along a passage that seemed to come out of nowhere to their left. Emily followed, trotting to keep up with the short Bede.

     "What are you, if you don't nind my asking?" Emily queried, hoping to learn something before they got to wherever they were going.

     "That, ababd, I cannot say." Bede replied. " 'If a potential abdgab appears, no information may be revealed until he/she has met Madame Butterfly,' " he quoted.

     Emily abruptly stopped. "Do not keep me in the dark any longer," she ordered.

     Bede became confused. He did not understand the nuances of English phrases, and even after 20 years of study, he still found trouble with it.

     "I'm sorry, ababd, but there are no lights on hand, and even it there were, no light is allowed in this chamber."

     Emily was adamant. "No, not light, I want information. Who are you? What are you? What is this place? Where are we going?"

     Bede sighed. He could tell this was a hard one. "Forgive me; I am Bede. And as I told you already, this is FedFad and we are going to see Madame Butterfly."

Emily rolled her eyes. She could tell this was a hard one.

Here goes... Chapter 1

        She was at the piano. It was 3 o'clock. Pounding the keys in frustration, Emily had to remind herself why she was there in the first place.

It was two weeks until Sarah's birthday. Sarah was Emily's 8 year old little sister, about to turn 9. Sarah was a simple, sweet, mousy-brown haired girl, and loved the piano and its music. Emily was composing a piece called "Madame Butterfly", named after Sarah's favorite opera. But composing was not coming as easily to Emily as it used to.

Emily played through her already finished bars, something she found herself doing more and more often lately, as she was making hardly any progress. She had had smooth sailing when she started; the notes flowing from her fingers, but then, one day she finished a phrase and it ended. Not the piece, the music. The music wouldn't come to her, but it was obvious it wasn't the end of the piece. Emily was dreadfully stuck.

She pounded the keys again, holding the notes. She started. Something had happened, some sort of click.

Emily quickly glanced at her fingers to confirm what she already knew, something she had learned to do writing music: she had played F E and D in her left hand, F A and D in her right. She shook her head to clear it. Just a trick of her overworked brain, she told herself.

Emily felt something tugging at her memory: her mother, speaking to her. But what was she saying? Then the memory faded away. She had been feeling oddly around the piano ever since... she couldn't remember when. That was the problem, she kept forgetting things.

Emily quickly shifted her attention back to the clicking noise, still uneasy about the memory. She tried banging the piano again; nothing. She tried to recall what she had played, but in vain. The notes had faded with the memory, which by now she couldn't even remember remembering.

Another click reached Emily's ears, this time more a creak than anything else. She saw an odd rectangle of wood above the keys closing into the piano. Emily started again, then snapped to her senses and stuck her finger into the timy hole and cried out in pain. Her finger was wedged in a door. After carefully extracting the aforementioned digit, she wondered how she had gotten there all of a sudden. Then her brain caught up.

She was standing in front of the odd rectangle of wood, now fully open again. How was she standing? Then her brain caught up again. The door had grown larger. Or, she had shrunk. Emily realized the latter was far more likely as she cautiously turned around, and saw her house looming high around her. The piano bench seemed 12 feet away, not a mere 12 inches.

Emily started to tremble. How had this happened? Emily saw no other course of action but to walk through the already re-closing door, though every nerve in her now tiny body was telling her not to.

Emily was confused, and had no idea what to do. She didn't want to leave the safety of her home, but then again her house seemed sinister and deadly to someone her size, and the piano was in her house, wasn't it? But what would she find in the piano? Would she become bigger while in the piano and become trapped? Emily was torn, and the invisible string that seemed to be pulling hew towards the door wasn't helping.

Finally, a fraction of a second before the door closed for the last time, Emily made her decision.

She jumped through the door.

My world

(Courtesy of Irish Girl)

My world is oh so pretty that it would be such a pity if the birds couldn’t fly in the sky so blue if the apples couldn’t grow on the trees fresh and new if the worms couldn’t wriggle it would not be a giggle if the fish couldn’t swim in the foamy waves and if bears could not live in their cozy caves my I am glad there are none of these dismays.

-Irish Girl was at my house and wrote this cool poem. I've been wanting to post it for months. So here it is!

My summer project!!!

One night, Silly Sally asked me to tell her a bedtime story. I didn't really feel like finishing it because I was really tired, so I said I would finish it the next night. Well, after about 2 weeks of saying that, I finally finished the story. I thought it was cool, and thought "Maybe I should write it down." Of course, I never really did anything about it for about a year. But lately I've been thinking about it a lot more, and I've decided: this summer I shall write a book. Because really, the "bedtime story" is more like a novel.
.
I started on Wednesday. I'm currently in the middle of chapter 2. I have no idea how long it will be. Writing it will add a lot more "filler" that you just say they did in a story or something like that. I am also developing a language for them to speak in my world. It is called Gab, and uses only the letters A-G. Crazy, I know.
.
As I type and finish editing chapters I will post them here, and I will try to make them regular. I am also writing some history and stuff like that about the setting of the story for my own reference, and to keep you busy when I'm in a tough spot with the story. Well, not really not really the story, as I have an advantage that I already know where the story goes and that sort of thing, but writing it with the words and conversations and everything that have faded from my mind in the past year will get me stuck sometimes. Also, recalling episodes will prove hard, as Silly Sally and I are already have debates about how things went, and it's my story!
.
So anyway, I'm super excited and will be posting the first chapter shortly.

Pie, again

Once I ate a pie

filled with blackberries and why,

why was it filled with berries

of that blue-black kind,

is what i wondered; 

Most likely beacuse, Edgar

the cook made it that way,

that way with berries and sugar,

that fine day in mid-December.

-Wrote this Monday with the other. Again, don't ask. I just felt the need for posting. I feel a little crazy right now.

Pie

Once I ate a pie

A great big pie it was,

a pie with apples and cinnamon,

and a buttery crust because,

the baker cook made it that way,

that way with flour and eggs,

after eating a breakfast of toast,

of toast and coffee with dregs.

- Don't ask.

Eucharist Poetry: New stanzas

Then the priest

Will say "Body of Christ"

Lifting You up high,

Towards my tongue,

I shall receive,

You, Oh Lord ,

In this Perfect Sacrament

Sacrament of the Altar.

I am munching,

 gnawing on, You now,

Blood and Body,

Soul and Divinity,

The Perfect Host that's You.

You institute this great great Sacrament,

On the day of Passover,

Your flesh, the new lamb

of the new covenant

replaces that of mortal goats,

Your blood, that of wine,

In the sacred rituals,

changed into something new,

A newer, sacred-er ritual,

Instituted by Christ,

Done in memory of You.

-. About the munching, gnawing part: I am not bloody. Seriously. It was not intended as such; the original Hebrew (or is it Greek?) word Jesus used in John 6 when He tells the people about the Eucharist literally means to gnaw, or to munch. 

A Quick Note: My Writing Style

I realized that my writing style has emerged. Mommy said 2 years ago, that in starting this blog, if I wrote every day or every other day just a little, while experimenting, my writing style would emerge. That made no sense at the time. But I am noticing a pattern. At first, when I wrote poetry, each time it was different. But as I have picked it up this year again, unfailingly, if you go back to each poem, it is free verse, no set meter, rhyming scheme; it is really just as it comes. Oh, and short lines. Those are predominant. 

So my writing style is free verse poetry with short-ish lines. It is weird thinking back to "The House" and seeing how very different that is. I would never have thought that I would be a poet. Whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, it was an author/writer. Of what? people would ask. Anything, the answer would come. 

But now it is seeming to be more poetry than anything else. It just comes naturally to me. I have a way with words, Mommy says. I guess that is poetically.

Enjoy!

Also, it occurred to me to write a poem about the pope, maybe the papacy, the Vatican, some history... I think that will be like the Eucharist Poetry: a pamphlet-like piece of work, different styles, etc. 

Eucharist Poetry

O Lord, enter my heart,

Enter my heart so gently,

Enter with the aid of Sacraments,

the Sacrament of Eucharist.

The Sacrament of Eucharist,

Communion with Christ,

Never ending, never stopping,

Perfect join to You.

O Lord how I love,

When the priest will lift You up,

In silence I adore,

the Perfect Host of You.

You love me Lord,

That I know,

When I kneel in adoration,

adoring You in monstrance,

gold and silver, lifting You

up to Heaven,

Sweet smelling incense,

filling up my nostrils,

oh how I love You.

Prayers and prayers,

on my tongue,

begging to be released,

yet my mind unable to form words,

sits in awe, trying

trying to comprehend 

this Love,

this great great Love,

that would come down

for me, for me

in this Precious Form,

my heart knowing,

my mind resisting,

the knowledge my soul has.

Why, oh why,

Would you come down,

descend unto this bread,

this humble Form of exsistence,

Oh Creator of all,

when the priest,

as You

repeats Your words,

those holy, holy words

"This is My Body and My Blood

of the holy Covenant"

to be comsumed by me,

tainted, torn by sin;

the answer is for Love.

For love would you come thus,

To humble bread and wine,

to be with us, to live in us,

always, oh Lord Divine.

I thank You Lord, for this gift,

This great gift of Your Soul,

To join with mine,

to be with mine,

forever, ever, Lord.

- The odd capitalization was to put more emphasis on God, while detracting form other words. The long spaces between stanzas show a new "poem".

It was all written together, in about half an hour, but I could sort of sense slight differences between the way they were written and the subtle differences in style. I realized you have to have the right rhythm when you are reading it, because reading it over made me confused until I corrected my reading. Just experiment a little I guess on that matter.

This is a pamphlet of poetry for IMPACT for the Sacrament of Eucharist. Mommy told me to do a project by myself, without Architect A. The poems don't have individual names because, even though it is separate, it is sort of meant to be read together. Also, I've realized I'm a bit lazy when it comes to making names for poetry.

I have never before been able to really express myself in religious poetry before. But this came so naturally and simply to me. I am finding that even in prose, am I writing poetically. Such as then. And I think poetically, not prose-y, so it sort of feels like poetry is taking over my life, but I don't care.

Habemus Papam!

We have a pope! God bless Pope Francis from Argentina, formerly Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio of Buenos Aires, first non-European, Argentinian, and Jesuit pope, and the first pope who took the name Francis!

We love you Papa!

Sealed in Christ

A bishop's hands,

coming, stretching,

toward my face,

dripping with oil,

chrism,

blessed to confirm,

peace and joy,

flooding my soul,

I am sealed in Christ,

the Spirit.

- I wrote this for an IMPACT project I am doing about Confirmation. Architect A is drawing a picture of a bishop confirming, and I am writing the text for the poster. And, seeing who I am, Architect A set me to also write a poem, which I probably would have done anyway.

I wrote this at co-op sitting outside on a rock, with nothing else to do. Everyone was in class and I had nowhere to go. I thought, "Oh, I'll write that poem". It came together in about the space of 5 minutes. Afterwards I felt very close to God, and rather joyful while I waited for Silly Sally to get out of class.

It is probably the shortest poem I have ever written. But it was done.

The House

When once I took a sorry stroll,

Saddned by a tale untold,

that dreary night in mid-November,

(Why I was there I can't remember),

While I stood there watching, waiting,

Waiting, watching, while debating,

Debating whether I should or not,

go home for a bun all nice and hot.

I decided no and proceeded on,

proceeding to a place now gone;

to find the house still there intact,

was quite a shock for me, alack!

I had hoped and pleaded with all my soul,

Pleading it be still not there my goal,

To see it there was troubling to my mind,

a mind that needed saneness, and things kind.

'Shall I proceed?' I asked myself,

'Should I proceed into this place of stealth,

Or turn back and attempt to forget?'

But before my mind was set,

I heard a hoot from an owl.

Looking up I saw the feathered fowl and scowled,

scowled at that annoying bird.

And there am I still, breathing not a word.

.

- I wrote this poem exactly 2 years ago. Well, I meant to post it Saturday, but I wasn't home all day. I like it so much that I felt that I should post it on my blog, and I was going to do so about a month ago, but realized I could pretend to have a reason by saying it was the 2 year anniversay/birthday whatever of when I wrote it. I've blown that obviously, but whatever.

.

Mommy decided that since it was Edgar Allen Poe's 203 birthday the day before class, her assignment for my creative writing class at SMA would be to write a 3 stanza poem with some of the same elements (e.g., onomatopoeias, alliteration, assonance, repetition, etc.) as "The Raven", by Mr. Poe. It was also supposed to have a creepy, somewhat scary feeling to it, like "The Raven".

This is what I came up with.

I cannot tell you why, but I am very proud of this poem. I just am. I have been proud of it for 2 years. Sometimes with my writing I think, "Oh, I should have done _______". But not with this.

If you haven't read "The Raven" yet, it is one of the best poems and probably my favorite (though I haven't thought about it much, but if you gave me 2 seconds to come up with my favorite, I'd say this). So here is a link to it: "The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe.

Friendship

What is friendship?

Something confusing,

complicated 

at first sight,

but upon

further inspection

you find

Friendship is simple, yet much more.

What is friendship?

Playing together,

crying 

over bruises together,

But as you grow older

it becomes

more than that,

sweet, kind, 

loving,

Cherishing the other.

What is friendship?

That lovely thing that enables two,

Two to be

in harmony

like siblings knowing

 the other

Helping herself 

to the other's

snacks,

possessions, rooms,

things, accomplishments,

as if it were hers

What is friendship?

That thing when two
will laugh

and chat
for hours

about nothing

never caring,

For they are friends.

What is friendship?

It is love.

-Perfect example of what I said the other day about all my poems being different.

My friend told me to write a poem about friendship because she was appalled by my lack of posting. So here it is. Well, you've already read, I'm presuming.

This is probably my quickest poem ever. I started it less than an hour ago, at 1:55 (posting time wrong). Then at about 2:10 I was startled by having most of it finished. Since then I've just added a few words and the 4th stanza. And separated a few lines. It's amazing the world of difference it makes when you just separate those lines and change/delete some words. As soon as I did the last thing to make it to how you see it now, I though,"Yes! It's done!" I didn't know why, but it was. You can just tell. 

This is good.

I just made myself a goal. 2 poems/week, how that will work out, I'm not sure. And then the random writing assignments.

Thank you, Architect A!

Nativity Poem

Nativity, Nativity, such a sweet word,

Bringing to mind the great joy of Christmas that comes to all the world.

In the weeks leading up to that joyfilled morn,

My family watches candles slowly burn

down, and violet, anticipating,

anticipating that day, 

that day when Christ comes down to us,

in a form as ours.

I remind myself as I wake,

That God sent His only Son to me

Because of His great unending love for me

In the freezing cold,

Where the wise men gave him gold,

(So I have been told,)

And I He shall never forsake.

On that Christmas morn I find myself desiring one gift solely,

That gift of God's Son to me,

In all my sin and loneliness,

Only to have 

him die on a tree

for me, for me!

-Mommy got an email about a Joy to the World! Prayer Contest*- well, contest. The challenge was to create a piece of artwork, essay (not really an essay, but a short paragraph; it was only allowed to be 50-100 words), or poem portraying family traditions, how you felt about Christmas, how you remind yourself of Christmas everyday, etc. I, obviously, wrote a poem. The entries have to be submitted by Friday via mail, so I wrote this yesterday, with some editing/additions earlier today.

At first I was so lost as to what to do. I started wondering,"How on earth did I write "The House" [coming soon] 2 years ago?" Well, I'll tell you how. Sitting in front of the computer for half an hour trying to come up with something. And then the words just start coming to you. Slowly, but they come. Sometimes they're just ideas that get translated to words in several seconds.

Now, I know what you're thinking, I know there isn't really a set meter, line length, or even really regular rhyming. But sometimes, and you can really only understand this if you are a poet (I'm not claiming to be up there with Edgar Allen Poe or something, just someone who writes poetry occasionally), something feels right about whatever it is, like I felt like I should add another 'old' rhyming in the 3rd stanza. It just felt right. And I had an incredible urge to do something about it until I wrote that 6th line. And it's hard to explain, and it might not make sense if you don't write poetry. I realized that while Silly Sally was looking at it and said something about "Change this to this. It'd sound better", and I was offended and she didn't seem to understand that that was the way it was supposed to be. I just realized it's like what Michelangelo said once,"In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me...I only have to hew away the rough walls that imprison it." The poem is already there, and even though I don't "see it", necessarily, when I start, changing something that's supposed to be there is like lopping off the nose of a statue, if that makes any sense.

I guess my point is, all poetry is different. I can see that looking at all the crazily different poems I've written.

*name of contest

P.S. And no, it doesn't have a name. Yet.